


For The Good Of The Realm

by PinkLetterDay



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, High Fantasy, M/M, Past Barry Allen/Iris West, Political Alliances, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 22:36:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16072760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkLetterDay/pseuds/PinkLetterDay
Summary: Marrying the ward of King Thawne was an impulse decision for High King Oliver and some in the politically tense Opal Realm are not pleased by the union. Least of all the new Prince consort himself.





	1. Chapter 1

The Opal King’s Garrison outpost in the Plains had a festive air that night, for the High King himself and his Queensmen had arrived to make camp on his way back from the Citadel to his own home in Starling. News had come of his unexpected wedding to the young Lord Allendale of the Middle Kingdom and, though taken aback, the Garrison had welcomed their company warmly with a great feast. Every torch and brazier among the pavillions was lit joyfully, chasing away the darkness and chill of the plain, and knights and servants of every rank and gender laughed and drank among the blazing campfires.

Yet the honored guest of the night was currently staring into the flames in a brown study, as the most trusted swordsiblings of the Queensmen Guard lay dozing around him, well-fed and mellow.

“Gods, man, I’ve seen you cut down the Seven Armies of Tarth and woo the wives of dukes and serving girls at their own tables these past five years. But one glare from a sweet little lordling and you’ve got more nerves than the first time you got your dick wet.”

King Oliver glared at his best friend the Duke of Merlyn as the men gathered around the campfire all laughed.

“Have a care, Merlyn. That sweet little lordling is your prince consort now. And I've don't have  _nerves_ ,” he added, sulkily.

“Remember how you soused yourself in almost an entire wine barrel before you worked yourself up to do it that first time?" grinned Tommy, “you strode into my room thumping your chest in the wee hours afterwards and puked over my window onto Dame Thessel’s pug. She still hates me.”

“Thank you, Thomas, what would I do without your loyalty and encouragement,” deadpanned Oliver as his men rolled around laughing. “Oh yes, live a more dignifed life.”

“Why would you need encouragement, Oliver?” asked General Diggle. The head of his King’s Guard would not have been so informal beyond this intimate circle of friends, people who had proven their worth and fought at his back for half a lifetime, it felt like. “It’s not as though you’ve not been married before. I know you still grieve Samantha’s passing but its not as though you’ve been a monk before or since.”

“Samantha and I were a marriage of convenience, John. We grew up together and knew what was expected of us. Neither of us had any illusions of what our life together would be like. I had my lovers and, once she gave me our heir, she had hers.” Oliver’s sadness was not at the lovelessness of their marriage but for his son’s loss of his mother. Samantha had been a capable ruler, a good friend and loving mother. He still missed being able to entrust his household to her.

This time Tommy and Diggle both looked perplexed. “And is this not a marriage of convenience? King Thawne wanted to keep our favour without yielding his lands, so threw his ward at your head. Just as well, his own son was a comely enough lad but didn’t seem quite to your taste,” Tommy huffed a laugh and swigged his mead.

Oliver leaned closer to his two most trusted friends, away from even the passive ears of his friends. “Thawne was trying to secure our favour by negotiating a tithe, a generous one. It was I who asked for his ward’s hand to seal the alliance. He could not say no even if he had wanted.”

Diggle’s eyes pierced him with his customary calculating intelligence but Tommy almost dropped his tankard. “What in blazes? Why? Good gods, man, if you wanted to bed him surely there were easier ways -”

“Be quiet, Tommy!” Oliver hissed in irritation. “If I wished to advertise it to all of the Opal Realm I would have done it myself! Listen.”

“After Malcolm had the Duke and Duchess of Allendale executed for their part in the Resistance, King Thawne was made Barry’s ward. His parents were popular, but the King was not, though he declared his kingdom neutral in the Reign of Darkness. The people barely saw hide nor hair of Barry even after I overthrew Merlyn, and my intelligence reported that he was only ever permitted the company of a handful of Thawne’s court, and none of his surviving relatives.”

“I saw how he was in that place. Lonely, eager to please and strictly controlled, Eobard circling him like a vulture, to what end I do not know. Even Westfold and Raymond could see it; they were both created by Thawne but either could scarcely stand the man. I did not know what fate would have befallen him had I left him in that place, so I did the only thing I could think of.”

There was a silence.

Tommy set his heavily depleted tankard down and held up a finger. “Your Highness,” he said slowly, “forgive me if I misunderstand, but it seems to me that you said you just fucking got married to a wet behind the years puppy of an easily-conquered vassal kingdom just to play knight in shining armour.”

“Well, I am a king and if my squire were more diligent in his duties my armour would shine as well,” Oliver leaned back easily and aimed a light kick at the dozing Roy Harper near his feet. The boy drowsily held up a middle finger, rolled over and continued sleeping.

Diggle snorted. “Just as well King Thawne didnt see for himself the harsh discipline of your company,” he chuckled as Oliver’s gauntlet went whizzing past his ear.

“All right, so you saved your uh, gentleman in distress,” said Tommy. “Still doesn’t explain the nerves -”

“ - I don’t have nerves -”

“- or why you’ve been shy to so much as get near him over the three days we rode from the Plains to the garrison. Not exactly the best way to allay a young lad’s nerves before his wedding night. He must think you a right churl.”

“What?” This genuinely had not occurred to Oliver. “I was simply trying to give him some space…to process.”

“If you give him anymore space, the boy could till a small field on it,” scoffed Tommy.

“It’s true, Oliver,” said Diggle. “We know you well enough to see your nerves -”

“ - by all the gods, will you two -”

“ - but to the rest of the world you simply appear aloof and taciturn. You’ve been treating the poor boy like forgotten luggage since the ceremony.”

Oliver looked into the fire in a manner he would be irked to hear described as brooding. “I went to pay my respects to him after Thawne agreed to the betrothal. He…did not seem pleased. Polite but almost frigidly so. And then during the ceremony he met my eyes exactly once - and there was such venom in them! As though I was taking him hostage!”

Diggle leaned forward and pinched the bridge of his nose and Tommy flopped on his back and groaned.

“Oliver, you did to all intents and purposes, take him hostage,” said his friend with uncharacteristic seriousness, “As far as he knows he stood to inherit a duchy of his own kingdom until your roving eye happened upon him and demanded his hand under threat of dire political repercussions were he to refuse!”

“That’s how royalty is!,” exclaimed Oliver defensively, “We marry for wars and alliances and trades! I’m not taking away his title, I’m raising his standing! Thawne would not dare move against him now that he is the Prince Consort of Starling!”

Diggle had a reputation to rival Oliver’s own as a war-hardened warrior but the dark eyes he turned to his friend were deep and profound, in that way that reminded Oliver that his friend was first and foremost a husband and father.

“You of all people should know that young people do not necessarily resign themselves to what is expected of them,” he said gently, and the memories of a youth spent cavorting and disappointing his long-dead father arose and gnawed at Oliver’s heart. “If duty and obligation were all that drove us the world might be a simpler and more terrible place. Once upon a time you too dreamed of a life and a love you couldn’t have.”

Oliver looked carefully away from a suddenly still Tommy and swallowed down the tightness in his chest. “Laurel found a man much better than I could ever be,” Tommy made as though to lay a hand on his shoulder but then withdrew, “and I only dreamed of running away from a life I wasnt prepared to face. Are you saying Bartholomew is the same?”

“I think he has lived his life hoping against hope,” said Diggle thoughtfully. “and that he needs affection and respect more than space. He is yet barely nineteen summers past, Oliver. You need to speak to him and get to know his expectations.”

There was a pause as all three men contemplated the issue.

“He seems like the drippy, romantic sort,” volunteered Tommy helpfully. “Recite him some poetry! Compliment his derriere! With poetry.”

Diggle groaned and stood up to pour himself more mead and Oliver looked at his friend incredulously. “Poetry?”

“Well, I don’t know, some people have preference for that sort of thing,” Tommy shrugged. “Laurel likes it. Sometimes. It makes her laugh.”

“I recant it all, Laurel married a halfwit,” said Oliver tartly. Tommy wasnt allowed a chance to retort before Lady Smoak appeared before them.

Oliver stood up as she approached.

“Your Majesty, His Highness the Prince will receive you now,” she announced, curtesying low before him very properly. Oliver looked narrowly at his friend, whose demurely downcast eyes were dancing with mirth. It was typical of Felicity to make fun of him while paying by court rules.

Everyone gathered themselves up and stood at attention but a ripple of stifled laughter ran among Oliver’s inner circle.

“Thank you, Lady Smoak,” he said graciously, “please lead the way. And my Lord Merlyn,” he firmly pulled the flushed and swaying man to him by the elbow, “not a word to anyone! You gossip worse than a washer-woman when you’ve been in your cups.”

“Pffft! Slander and infamy! I’d challenge you to a duel, sir, if I could be arsed!” Tommy pushed him away and gesticulated expansively as the soldiers laughed. “I am a grown man, and I keep my own counsel!”

“Good,” said Oliver, striding away. “And when Laurel and Sara inevitably get you to spill it all I would appreciate it if you withheld the part about my “nerves”. I’ve had enough heckling for one campaign.“

….

The pavillion was the largest one in the garrison, put up a discreet distance away from the others living quarters yet encircled day and night by the King’s Guard. The canvas was draped in the gold and red banners of his consort’s standard rather than the green and onyx of his own - one of the many small accomodations Oliver had made to make his consort more comfortable.

He hesitated before entering and caught Lady Smoak’s shoulder. "Felicity, is he -” he struggled to find the words.

Felicity laid her hand comfortingly over Oliver’s own but looked at him sternly, in much the way Diggle did.

“He’s very scared and very brave,” she said in carefully low voice. “Mostly because some hedge-born oaf of a king spent three days not speaking to him! Really, Oliver-”

“Yes, I know I know!” he cut her off desperately. “I’ve been a fool. Just please tell me how to put it right!”

Felicity sighed and rolled her eyes. “Just speak to him gently and with respect. Be yourself,” her pretty blue eyes shone with sly merriment, “show him how stupidly infatuated with him you are.”

“I’m not -”

But Felicity had already given his shoulder an irreverent swat and was picking her skirts across the grass.

Oliver sighed and cleared his throat awkwardly.

No answer. He cleared it a little louder.

“Would Your Majesty like to come in?” called a voice impatiently.

Oliver flushed and entered. Immediately he was enveloped in the humid warmth of the carpeted pavillion, mahogany furniture gleaming in the lantern light draped in furs and velvets and wool. The burning camp fires and braziers outside made the canvas walls glow golden. Upon the sprawling fawn fur-covered bed was seated the new Prince, head held high as though the bed were his own throne.

This was why Oliver had kept his distance. He could not admit it to even those closest to him, but the beautiful youth made him feel tongue-tied, ungainly and at a loss. Not just because of his lanky, lissom beauty - Oliver had travelled the width and breath of the Opal Kingdoms and bedded men and women just as attractive as the prince. But because of that blazing gaze and sloping shoulders held so ramrod straight, where before a puppyish eagerness had fuelled an almost reckless boldness, quicksilver smiles and hands gesturing animatedly when he rambled unself-conscously about one of the myriad subjects that had caught his fancy.

It had first irritated and amused Oliver, this child who couldn’t stay his tongue, and then inspired a great protectiveness in him that had caught him off guard. He would have used his clout to intimidate Thawne into keeping the prince safe, but as Barry continued to hover around him like a rather endearing and awestruck fly, Oliver had realized he couldnt bear to leave him behind to Thawne’s tender mercies. The proposal had been almost spur of the moment on his part, certainly it had discombobulated Thawne entirely. Oliver had seen the wheels behind his conniving eyes turning, trying to turn it to his advantage, but there was never a question of refusing the High King of the Opal Realm.

Oliver had expected Barry to be thrown and confused, for they had forged only a tentative friendship during his brief tour of the Plains, very far from a courtship. But he had not been prepared to meet with the icy, aloof creature whose eyes had gone cold with betrayal. There had been no time or space to explain himself. Worse, he only realized how much he missed and desired the boy’s warmth and attention once it had been withdrawn from him.

Barry was wrapped in a deep red robe, hair still damp from the hot scented bath Oliver had ordered drawn for him. The lantern light made his delicate face ethereal, his pale skin glistening dewey and smooth. Oliver’s mouth was dry.

“Would Your Majesty like something warm to drink?” Barry said condescendingly. “You appear to have caught a cough outside,” his lip curled in what might have been a smile but was closer to a sneer.

Oliver began to clear his throat again before catching himself. “No, er. That’s alright. I’m fine.”

Barry nodded, and continued staring at him impassively with a curious head tilt. Oliver was unpleasantly reminded of the way his mother would trip up visiting dignitiaries by assaulting them with gracious patience.

He took a deep breath. “Barry, I…I owe you an explanation.”

“You are the High King of the Opal Realm, Your Majesty,” said Barry still with that awful courteousness, “you owe no one anything.”

“That’s not true. I owe many people many things,” said Oliver, honestly. “I owe a friend an apology when I have inadvertently stolen him from his home.”

“Maybe your friend would listen to and accept your apology,” said Barry, not bothering to hide the bite in his tone now, “but I am your consort, and my only desire is to fulfill my duty on my wedding night.”

“I had a consort before,” said Oliver mildly, “ she was my friend.”

“Yes well, probably you were wed in different circumstances,” said Barry. His eyes were a storm in his carved marble face. “Now if you don’t mind -” he stood up and the robe began to fall from his broad shoulders.

“You were in danger from your guardian!” Oliver burst out and Barry froze, clutching the robe. “I was only trying to protect you!”

Barry stared at him for a long moment. And then began to laugh.

“It’s true!” said Oliver desperately. He strode forward and caught him by the shoulders, shaking him. “He had nefarious intentions- my spies said - I know you love him but you have to -,”

“ _Did you think I didn’t know?”_

Oliver stepped back, startled. “What?”

Barry continued laughing but it was an awful, bitter, near-hysterical laughter. “I see what happened. You rode into the palace on your steed and beheld a naive boy manipulated by the man he was fool enough to trust, because I alone of the kingdom didnt know of his hand in my parents’ betrayal, I was a puppet blindly eating out of his hand like a pig for slaughter. And you thought - why leave well enough alone, or even discuss your intelligence with me when you can gain a new toy and be the white knight -”

“It wasn’t like that!” Oliver finally found his tongue. “Barry, I swear, I thought you didn’t know! You were always so happy and blithe and…and,”  _innocent_ “…young!”

“So?” Barry snapped, “I’ve been smiling and young all my life! I was thought too young to know that the Resistance never betrayed my parents, to ever be taken seriously when spent my life keeping faith that I would avenge their murder, kept smiling when I discovered the rumours were true and the man I loved like a father would destroy me like he had my family, kept finding reasons to trust and pray and hope - had my beloved attendants sent away to protect them and allay my king’s suspicions. Spent months convincing Eddie of the truth and persuading him to my side, building an alliance with Viscount of Westfold, the Earl of Raymond and Lady Stein.”

“I am young and inexperienced and I was uncertain and fearful but I would think of you every time, you who had been lost to the Opal Realm for years and yet survived on only your wits and came back to defeat the Pretender in single combat! You who was living proof to me that the impossible could happen, your righteousness and your strength…oh, I was so happy when you finally came to the Plains. I was considering taking you into my confidence but then thought that you might not believe me, I had no credibility…but I thought I had earned, if not your friendship, then at least some respect!”

Oliver was frozen as Barry sank down onto the bed and buried his head in his hands, trembling after his furious diatribe.

“Maybe I would have succeeded, maybe I would have failed and been killed in the attempt,” he murmured sadly, scrubbing his hands down a face now streaked with tears. “But it would have been on my terms. After a lifetime of living manipulated and silenced and never allowed to draw free breath - finally my destiny would have been in my own hands. It may have been a foolish dream, but it was my own.”

He crumpled in on himself, huddling into the thick robe as though cold and shook with silent sobs.

Oliver slowly walked up to him and kneeled at his feet.

“I am so sorry,” he said, hand hovering over the prince’s slim wrist. “Barry, I have made a terrible mistake. Help me put it right.”

“It’s a little late for that,” said Barry, eyes red and face resigned, and Oliver couldnt honestly say it was an improvement. “We were married under sacred covenant in front of your entourage and most of the Plains. Rushed it might have been but binding it certainly is,” his mouth turned down wryly, “believe me, I searched for a loophole.”

The thought of the prince burning the candle at both ends in the nights leading to their wedding, desperately trying to find a way out filled Oliver with an ever more crushing sense of mortification. No wonder he had looked so gaunt and pale at the ceremony, no wonder the Houses of Westfold and Raymond had turned so frosty to him.

“Why didn’t you talk to me?” asked Oliver. “Did you think I would be so set on carrying you off against your will?”

Barry avoided his eyes, instead focusing on the hands clenched in fistfuls of robe on his lap.

“Eobard announced his son’s betrothal to Lady Iris on the same day,” he said quietly. “I was planning to ask for her hand. I do not know if she would have accepted, or if she knew of my feelings. But I was promised to you, the High King, and had no reasonable protest to voice. Eddie marrying into the Wests will consolidate their standing in court, and she consented of her own free will. Even if you released me now, she is lost to me. And had I stayed, I would be expected to stand at their wedding as the King’s ward.” Tears clung to the long sweep of lashes, and he brushed them away with trembling hands. “I couldn’t…I can’t…”

As a child, Oliver had once caught a small bird that had wandered into his chambers. Exhulting in his prize, he had run back to his mother and opened his hands to show her his trophy, only to see the poor creature crumpled and stunned, wings broken. It was the first time of many that he had known that devastation, yet as his heart sank like a stone inside him now, the guilt felt just as fresh and unbearable.

Prince Barry’s averted gaze turned hard and cold again. “Even if you did free me, I did not know if you would take offence. To fall out of favour of the High King would be ruinous to the Plains. From a purely political point of view, it is an advantageous match for my plans,” his lips curved in a brittle smile, “just not for my happiness.”

There was a long pause as the prince’s shallow breaths evened. Oliver stayed on his knees, absorbing the new reality and the addition of yet another grievious mistake to his storied career.

He reached out and gently cupped Barry’s wet cheek, turning his face toward him. “Barry, look at me,” the young man raised his eyes relunctantly, reddened and wet but still so lovely. Oliver gazed deep into them, humble and tender. “I have done you great wrong with my misjudgement. I would not fault you for even hating me for what I have wrought upon your life. It is too late to turn back time, but from here on I will abide by your wishes and take no decisions without you. You are my consort, and I shall make you my co-ruler,” Barry’s eyes went wide at this, “I promise you, Bartholomew, Lord of Allendale, that I will do everything in my power to help you bring your parents’ killer to justice.”

The prince looked warily at Oliver. “Is that an oath, Your Majesty?”

“Yes, it is,” said Oliver, desperate for him to see his earnestness. “I swear I never thought to trifle with our union, nor to treat you as lesser than you are.”

“What am I to you?” he asked, suddenly seeming genuinely curious. “Why did you ask for my hand? You seemed to barely tolerate me before, let alone desire me. You could have anyone in the Opal Realm you wanted, especially a princess who could beget you more children.”

“I do not need to marry to have more children,” said Oliver wryly. “I can beget a child by any woman I please or adopt one already born and proclaim them heirs. And now any child born of you will be as of my own blood as well.”

“You would permit me to lie with women outside of the marriage bed?”

He shrugged. “‘Tis how my sister was conceived. And the usual practice among noble unions where one is Unwombed.”

“Yes, but it is the more powerful lord who has the right to beget, while the consort is to submit,” Barry pointed out. “It's the heirs of your blood and name that will claim my lands.”

Oliver waved this away dismissively. “I am not a traditionalist. All I ask is that you be kind to my son, William, and treat him as your own. He is a very bright and sensitive boy, with a loving heart. Not unlike you.”

“I would never treat any child unkindly, Your Majesty, but pray do not compare me to your son,” said Barry, wrinkling his nose so adorably that Oliver had to stifle a smile. “You were certain he would not rather a mother than another father?”

“A parent knows no gender, my Prince,” said Oliver gently. “And between my mother and sister and the Ladies Lance and Smoak, he has no lack of female influence.”

“It is the Lady Smoak who helped me prepare, is it not?” said Barry, brightening slightly. “I like her. She seems very agreeable.”

Once again, that sudden shift from resolute man to hopeful boy. It was as mercurial and tremulous as spring weather, and kept Oliver off-balance yet intrigued.

“Yes, she is one of my closest friends,” said Oliver, trying to ignore a small spark of jealousy at the interest in Barry’s voice. It was rather strange, after years being jealous of Felicity’s suitors, to suddenly feel jealous  _of_  her.

“Just a friend?” Barry seemed to have caught the minute shift in his expression.

Oliver took a deep breath, reminded himself of his promise and spoke unfaltering, “Only a friend now, though we used to be lovers some seasons past. She is to wed Ambassador Palmer soon.”

“Sir Raymond Palmer of the Legends?” a hint of excitement crept into the boy’s voice. “He lives in Starling now?”

Oliver fought down a prickle of irritation rather stronger than what he usually felt at the mention of Sir Palmer. “Yes, he has set up an armory there,” full of new-fangled inventions he did not trust. “and the Legends are just a name they call themselves, they aren’t  _really_ -”

“Does he still go adventuring with them? Have they found Captain Snart yet?,” more of Barry’s despondency fell away with each question. “He is of the Plains, you know, before he went sailing and became famous. He used to give me souvenirs of his travels when we met at the jousting tournaments,” this last with an actual small, reminiscent smile.

“He’s a  _pirate_ , Barry!” said Oliver in consternation.

“Used to be,” said the Prince firmly, smile becaming rather knowing, “and a very handsome one too.”

Oliver stared at the Prince until the younger man looked away, lips twitching. He suddenly realized that he was still kneeling on the ground and rose to his feet, dusting off his britches, trying not to seem as wrong-footed as he felt.

“You never answered my question,” said Barry, face upturned to him. “Why choose me?”

“Because I desired you,” said Oliver, ashamed. Yes, he had been captivated and covetous as he had not been since Laurel, since Felicity. Those had ended so badly that the feelings had frightened him, which is why he had first tried to deny and dismiss and then rationalize them to allow himself what he wanted. “I wanted to protect you, but being around you…you made me feel light and hopeful. I thought I would be able to keep you safe and happy.”  _Keep you with me_.

“Keep me in another gilded cage, you mean,” bitterness again laced Barry’s words, and he flinched. “And here I could have sworn you thought me a damned nuisance.”

“That too,” said Oliver, unable to stop a smile

Barry’s head whipped up in surprise before he could hide it. It was the prince’s turn to stare at him now while he tried not to smile. After a while Barry own lips quirked up at the corners, seemingly despite himself. He ducked his head, the golden light illuminating a becoming rose flush on his cheeks. He drew the robe tighter around himself and played nervously with the girdle.

“So what happens now?” he asked in a small voice. “Do we still consummate our marriage?”

Oliver sat down next to him on the warm fawn fur coverlet. “Do you want to?” he asked, carefully.

The tips of the Prince’s ears went redder. “It doesn’t matter what I want,” he said stubbornly, not meeting his eyes. “The covenant of royal marriage states that consummation must take place before the next new moon after the ceremony. As annulment would be disastrous to me and my kingdom, it must be done.”

“It appears so,” said Oliver gently. “But I have never taken an unwilling person to bed with me, and never will.”

His eyes swept over his groom's graceful form once more as he continued worrying at his girdle, lingering on the plush pink lips and long neck speckled with a trail of moles that disappeared down his shoulder. He wanted to follow it with his mouth, pressing kisses to the dewy pink skin whose light cinnamon scent teased him even now. His cock, rather long neglected, was starting to take interest regardless of the solemnity of the moment.

Oliver willed back his desire and laid his hand between them, palm up in clear invitation. After a moment’s hesitation, Barry slowly set his own hand upon it.

“We have a fortnight before the Rite of Sealing must be performed,” Oliver said, intently tracing the length of the delicate, graceful fingers with his rough, blunt ones. “In that time we can become comfortable with each other, so that we may consummate with minimal discomfort. Have you lain with anyone else before?”

The blush deepened again. “No, I - I am untouched, Your Highness.”

Oliver studied the boy’s face, still holding his hand in a gentle clasp. “You can be honest with me, Barry. I have no fantasies of deflowering anyone. At your age I was very far from virgin and suffered no lack of willing bed-mates,” he said wryly.

“But I am not you, sire,” said Barry, the droop of his head becoming brooding. “I am not the most self-assured in that regard, and any who appeared to desire me feared the King more. Besides,” the lines of sadness deepened again, “I only ever wished to make love, and I only ever loved one person.”

Would the regret ever stop stabbing at Oliver? He raised Barry’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to it. “It is early yet for us to speak of love, if indeed you ever could after my misdeeds. Nevertheless, I can make it a painless and pleasurable memory for you, if you allow me. Once our union has been cemented, you need never entertain me in your bed again if you do not desire it."

Barry looked at him with open curiosity. “Did you love her?” he asked in yet another one of his whiplash conversational turns. “Your late queen?”

“Yes, as a friend,” said Oliver with the customary pang of guilt at her mention. “She was a sweet, dutiful and loyal companion to me and a loving mother to our son. I miss her greatly.”

“Is that what you wish me to be?” asked Barry, in the manner one trying to make sense of a puzzle. “A friend who takes care of your household and son?”

He hesitated. “At the very least.”

“And at the most?” Barry held his chin proudly, eyes bold with challenge, a boy defiantly hefting a too-heavy sword.

Oliver cupped the side of his face and carressed the line of his cheekbone with his thumb tenderly, heart skipping a beat as Barry’s eyes fluttered at the contact. “At the most, I would wish you to be my lover,” he said low and soft, heart full of yearning as he traced the strong, slender lines of the young man’s body wrapped in scarlet. “But that much neither of us can force.”

The rose in the cheek under his thumb deepened, Adam's apple bobbing in a swallow, but the prince kept his gaze steady on his. “And tonight?”

“Tonight we rest,” said Oliver simply. “We have cleared a misunderstanding and at daybreak we must resume an arduous journey back to Starling. Let’s sleep and see what the morning brings. What say you?”

The Prince heaved a sigh of relief and nodded. Pressing a last kiss to the soft hand, Oliver got up and started throwing blankets on the floor.

“What are you doing?” asked Barry in confusion.

“Taking the floor,” said Oliver matter-of-factly.

“You do not wish to share the bed?”

“Do  _you_  wish to share the bed?” he asked pointedly. His groom faltered.

“But it isn’t right for one of your station to lie on the floor!” Barry objected instead. “You should take the bed.”

“I told you, as far as I am concerned, as my consort you now share my station,” said Oliver, unlacing his boots. “If it troubles you so, we can alternate after tonight until I can arrange your own chambers in Starling.”

He divested himself of his tunic and stripped to his undershirt to find the prince staring at him, mouth agape. Oliver concealed his amusement.

“Good night, husband,” he said politely, about to extinguish the lantern.

Barry’s jaw snapped shut, suddenly coming back to himself. “G-good night my king,” he mumbled, flustered.

There was only the sound of rustling blankets in the semi-darkness and sighs while they settled into sleep. Oliver lay awake, listening to the prince toss and turn on the bed.

Silence fell in a veil as shadows flickered against the tent walls still glowing gold from the burning braziers outside. 

“I don’t hate you,” the boy whispered.

“Beg pardon?”

“I don’t hate you,” he repeated. “I feel like I ought to, but I don’t. I don’t know why,” this sounding baffled at himself.

Oliver was lost in emotions he couldn’t begin to decipher.

“I’m still angry though.”

He exhaled deeply. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **me:** i have a strange yen to write an olivarry arranged marriage au  
>  **me:** distraught but brave prince barry all dewy- eyed.  
>  **me:** _"please be gentle with me my king for i'm but a virgin"_ loool  
>  **wonderingtheblue:** ...please  
>  **me:** lmao what. really?  
>  **wonderingtheblue:** ~~arranged marriage au is a thing idk why i cant help it~~  
>  **me:** king oliver all like _"fear not, gentle blossom, though i may be virile and draw a mighty bow..."_ lmaooo  
>  **wonderingtheblue:** pleeeeeeease  
>  **me:** alright u can have 1 smutfic. but then bedtime ok? 
> 
> **10k words later**
> 
>  **me:** ...this isn't a smutfic. why is there angst. wtf is happening. blue! help! halp!  
>  **wonderingtheblue:** *cackling*


	2. Chapter 2

 

Because the Queensmen Guard were elite soldiers full of discipline and deference for their King, Oliver had resigned himself to a day of sly winks, bad jokes and terrible innuendo at his expense the next day. He bore it all wry and unperturbed until René was unlucky enough to sidle up to Barry as their company cantered along the trail.   
  
“You seem tired, Your Highness,” he smirked at the boy.   
  
“Not at all, sir knight, I am very used to long rides across the plains,” he responded innocently.   
  
“Yes but after your exertions last night, I worry you might feel somewhat sore in the saddle,” he joked.   
  
Barry blushed red and Oliver lost his temper.   
  
“Sir Ramirez! Are you a wild dog by nature as well as by name?” he barked, startling some of the horses and most of his men.   
  
“Your Majesty?” asked René, warily.  
  
Oliver turned a blistering glare on him. “If you have no more manners than a dog, especially when speaking to my Prince Consort and your liege, I will have you whipped like one! Have a care as to who you are and whom you address!”   
  
Diggle shook his head and René subsided shame-faced. “I apologize Your Highness. I have been too familiar. I meant no harm.”  
  
“It’s all right,” Barry mumbled, eyes downcast and face beetroot red.   
  
“See that you mind your tongue in future. That goes for every one of you!” Oliver raised his voice and the whole company quietened. “To disrespect my groom is to disrespect me, and I shall take swift action no matter who transgressses next! Do I make myself clear?”  
  
There was a murmur of assent.   
  
“Good. Now Sir Ramirez, perhaps your energies would be better spent guarding the supply wagons at the rear of the company?”  
  
It was a pointed snub and everyone knew it, but René bowed and complied without rancor. For all the friendship and familiarity Oliver allowed, they all knew better than to trespass those boundaries.  
  
Diggle drew up beside him. “That was rather a scene,” he said in a low voice.  
  
“René was rather a twit,” Oliver retorted.   
  
“Ramirez can take his licks how he pleases. I was thinking more of the Prince,” Diggle levelled a discreet glance at Barry. His cheeks were still glowing red and he appeared to be trying to disappear into his cloak. “He’s a sensitive lad, Oliver.”   
  
Another misstep, he thought wearily. Would he ever get it right with this boy?   
  
“Was I to let René run his mouth?” he grumbled.   
  
“Of course not,” said Diggle. “Just lose your temper less next time. Although I think the men will not need a second warning." 

  
..  
  
Felicity corralled him when they stopped to rest the horses in the afternoon. They had left the flat trails now and arrived at the foothills of Keystone, whose rivers and streams rushed benign through lush green forests that were still preening in the warmth of the young summer. They would make camp in the valley soon and be received at Fort Keystone within a few days, when Oliver would again have need of Lady Smoak’s diplomatic skills.   
  
She stood out, as always, in her pink kirtle and bright unbound hair that she favoured despite the mud and the long rides. Oliver’s most trusted scribe and diplomat presented herself properly in court but ran free as a girl among the company, which was probably why she kept delaying her marriage to Sir Palmer for so long.   
  
"Well?” she demanded, “how did it progress last night?”  
  
Tommy snorted. “Lady Smoak! What indelicacy is this?” he said in faux affronted tones. “The state of conjugal relations between your king and his groom - ”   
  
“ - is of great import to the politics of the Opal Realm,” Felicity shot back.  
  
“- and did not happen,” said Oliver calmly, handing Gambit’s reins to his squire Roy.   
  
“What?” Tommy stopped short.  
  
“I guessed as much,” said Felicity impatiently. “He was in no fit state for any kind of sexual congress last night, poor soul -”  
  
“M'lady, the fact that you call it ‘sexual congress’ is not a very good reflection on Palmer’s skills - ow!” Tommy yelped as Felicity elbowed him in the gut without taking her eyes off Oliver.  
  
“I know there’s a lot the Prince is not telling us, and I need that intelligence to assess how to proceed,” Felicity’s face softened, “He’s so young and sweet, Oliver. We must treat him gently and earn his trust.”   
  
“He’s only a handful of years younger than you, m'lady,” smiled Oliver but did not belabour the point further. He sighed and gestured for Diggle and Dinah to join them. “You were right to be displeased with my hasty decision in the Plains, Felicity. I have made a grave error.”  
  
They gathered in an impromptu private council away from the clearing, and Oliver apprised his Queensmen of the new developments. There was a silence when he was finished.   
  
Felicity was the first to break it. “By all the gods! That poor boy!” she said, hands flying to her mouth in horror. “Oliver of Starling, there is much I would say to you right now if I didn’t know you are already flaying yourself over this and if I wasn’t just as culpable!”  
  
“You?” Oliver looked down at her in confusion, “how are you to blame?”  
  
“I should have gone to speak to the prince myself. Headed off this folly sooner. I don’t know,” she scrubbed her hand over her face. “He was in love,” she said sadly.  
  
“That is to be regretted,” Diggle broke in, “but more to the point, leaving the marriage unconsummated is dangerous, Oliver.”  
  
They turned inquiring eyes on him. “The longer the Rite of Sealing is delayed, the more rumours there will fly among the court. At best it will seem as though the prince is rejecting you and the people will resent him. At worst he can sue you for annulment on grounds of impotency.”  
  
There was a general protest and Oliver’s own ire rose.   
  
“Barry is not such a low character,” he objected, “and he has already admitted that an annulment would not be favourable for his kingdom.”  
  
“And absolutely no one will believe the inability to rise to the occasion is one of Oliver’s problems,” snorted Tommy. “His is more of the opposite, really.”   
  
“Shut up, Merlyn," said Dinah impatiently. "I am more worried about court intrigue. Digg is right. We have a resentful and relunctant young man in a vulnerable position to every conniving influence against you. It’s concerning. We must settle matters and guage whether he will prove a threat to you.”  
  
There was a general consternation at this, with Felicity rounding on Dinah, Tommy exclaiming and Digg defending her.  
  
“Silence, all of you!” said Oliver, casting his eyes furiously over the encampment to see if Barry was nearby. “I hear your concerns, General Diggle and Dame Drake. But please understand that this is as much a question of reparation to a wronged young lord as it is anything else. Let me handle this, please.”  
  
“The final decisions are always in your hands, my king.” Though ever stern of countenance, Dame Dinah inclined her head deferentially. “We are only here to advise you.”   
  
“All right,” said Oliver wearily. “At the moment it is my decision to go and wash away all my cares in the streams. If one of you could tell Roy to bring me my things, I would like some privacy.”   
  
…

  
Barry was caught in the familiar struggle of wishing to become invisible from all eyes and the need to hold his head high and pretend none of the humiliations he had been subjected to bothered him. It was a conundrum he ought to have resolved by now, being dogged by pity and condescension since the age of eleven when his parents had been executed but still plagued him in his adulthood. This was probably why he had not been regarded as a suitor by Iris, and seen as an easily manipulated chattel to be traded off to a more powerful man by his guardian and King Oliver.   
  
It was an uncharitable thought to the King, for Barry had been predisposed more favourably towards him since his gentle and understanding treatment the night before. But then he had made a spectacle of him this morning, as though he was a child unable to remonstrate a trespassing knight by himself. Barry had returned to fuming at his new and unwanted husband’s presumption.  
  
Fuming was good. Anger was safe. It was a much less inconvenient emotion than despair, or heartbreak or shame.   
  
He was huddled in his cloak, dodging between men leading horses and carrying supplies, feeling rather lost and alone. The King and his Queensmen had retired with urgent faces to confer in private. It made more resentment flare within him at being excluded, even as he felt grateful at not having to face them after the embarrassment of the morning. Especially Lady Felicity - she was very pretty and had been very kind to him the past few days, and he had come to seek her regard.   
  
He bumped sharply into someone.   
  
“Outta my way!”   
  
A stolid teenage boy was clutching a pile of clothes and pans, blinking. “Ah, sorry Your Gra-Majes-ness! Didn’t see you there!”   
  
“It’s all right,” said Barry, amused and suddenly relaxed by someone else’s discomfiture. “You’re the King’s squire, aren’t you?”   
  
“Aye, Prince,” said the youth uncertainly. “Roy Harper, at your service.” He awkwardly extended a grimy hand under the ungainly pile, then remembered himself and bobbed what passed for a bow.   
  
Barry smothered a grin and nodded back. “Here, Roy, let me help you,” he grabbed some items off him, glad of something to do. “What are you doing?”  
  
“Er - I’m to take these to Oliv - His Majesty,” said Roy. He levelled another uncertain look between them, then shrugged and led the way. “He’s gone to take a soak in the stream. Wouldn’t mind one myself, honestly. Damn plains. Hot as blazes in the sun and cold in the shade. Freeze your balls off at night. It’s like the friggin’ dessert with more bugs.”   
  
His candour was refreshing. “I’m quite used to it myself,” Barry said. “But I’ve never been in a desert. What’s it like?”  
  
Roy mulled this. “Hot,” he decided. “And sand in places where sand was never meant to go.”   
  
“Gods!,” Barry stopped with a sudden thrill. “Was this during the King’s campaign against the the Demon’s Head of Nanda Parbut?”   
  
“Aye,” said Roy casually, shouldering past more burly men. Barry had to pick up his stride to catch up.   
  
“I’ve never been anywhere outside the Plains, except for visiting Keystone a few times,” he said eagerly, “What was it like? How was the journey by ship? Did you ride on camels?”  
  
“Hot. Awful. We sailed a small eternity and I barfed for about as long. Yes we did. They kept barfing on me,” Roy did not seem to appreciate the glamour and adventure of his own lifestyle.  
  
“But what about the battles?” Barry demanded undeterred, “What were they like?”  
  
“Like a bunch of mugs brawling and throwing pointy things around,” shrugged Roy. “I caught an arrow to the knee. Hurt like the fucking devil. Oli - the King nursed me back on my feet. Mind, it was all his fault in the first place.”  
  
“The  _King_  nursed -”

“Barry! Roy!” The two of them turned to find Lady Felicity waving at them from the distance. She wove through the traffic at a run to draw up to them, breathless. “I was wondering where you’d gotten to.”  
  
Barry blushed.  _Anger is good_ , he reminded himself. “I decided to lend Roy some assistance, since you all seemed busy,” he said aloofly, drawing himself up to his full height.   
  
“Oh,” she seemed nonplussed. “Assistance with what?”  
  
“His _Majesty_ wants his clothes, ma'am,” said Roy in a sardonic tone, as though using the King’s proper address only grudgingly.   
  
Felicity brightened. “Ah, yes some of the Queensmen wanted to avail themselves of the waterfall nearby. It’s a dear little place, Prince Barry, you must see it.”   
  
“Yeah, that’s where we’re going, Fliss,” said Roy impatiently, “I mean, _Lady_ Fliss,” he amended at a stern look from her.   
  
She sighed and turned to Barry with a charming smile. For some reason it made him nervous. “Actually, Roy, why don’t Barry and I take His Majesty’s things and you can go…do something. Heat some mead. For him.”  
  
She made to tug the bundle out of Roy’s hands but he stepped back, suspicious. “Why?”  
  
“Why what? I’m only trying to show the prince the nice scenery, Roy,” she insisted, finally wresting his burden away with a completely unsubtle kick to the shin. Roy hopped away and scowled. “Run along now.”  
  
The squire rolled his eyes and stalked off with only his pans, muttering about addle-pated women.  
  
“I heard that!,” Felicity shot over her shoulder. Barry regarded her in bemusement. “Come along, Your Highness!”   
  
It was easy to let go of any ill-feeling toward her as they chatted aimably. She had always been easy and without artifice, something he had found relieving from their first meeting, and he also found an intellectual equal in her, as well-read and brimful of curiosity about the world as he was. He followed her lead without thinking much about where they were going, past the watchful King’s Guard encircling the bank, caught up in her smiling golden charm and interest in his chatter.   
  
“So I thought, if the Aertherling Scrolls were true, then mixing the star metal with the iron ore would -” he was explaining to her when she stopped with a cry.  
  
“Oh my stars! You just made me remember!” she exclaimed. “I was to take inventory of Ray’s armory before we arrived at Keystone!”  
  
Barry drew up short. “What? But you already took inventory before we  -”  
  
“One can never be too thorough!” she assured and unceremoniously dumped her bundle on top of his. Barry staggered. “You’ll find the others just through here, Barry, be a dear and give these to your husband, won’t you?”   
  
“I -,”   
  
“Thank you! I’ll see you at supper!” She was already tripping hastily through the woods.  
  
Barry narrowly surveyed her retreating form, then the entrnace to the thicket he found himself facing. An unwelcome thought entered his mind that he had effectively been abandoned in a strange place without witnesses by a woman he barely knew.   
  
Well, it wasnt as though he really knew any of these people. If this was to be some sort of murder plot, it would be a needlessly elaborate one. Besides, Roy and the Kings Guard knew where they went.   
  
Assuming they could be trusted.   
  
Barry gathered up both his burden and his reckless courage, took a deep breath and crept carefully through the thicket.  
  
The dense branches curled and tangled around themselves into a tunnel-like darkness that made the light peering at the other end blinding in contrast. The sound of gushing water grew ever louder as he walked forward. When he finally broke through the trees, he had to shield his eyes and squint against the sunlight, the noise of the falls torrential in his ears. His vision adjusted to find a small private clearing of mud and mellow grass where a large stream rushed past him, tumbling merrily over lichened grey rocks.   
  
It was too noisy to call out and he was still alone and unsure, so he silently clambered up the rocky knoll upstream to find the fall.   
  
And stopped.  
  
Within a grey alcove the river water cascaded white in a natural arc from a low shelf onto the stream below, part of which collected in a beautifully crystal clear stone basin. Under the spray, on a broad jut of rock stood the King all alone, face turned to the water and his back to Barry, completely naked.   
  
He was beautiful, pale body gleaming like sculpted marble, hair shining golden in the sun. The water streamed down the strong corded arms, the rippling muscles of his back and gushed down the cleft between firm, perfectly rounded ass cheeks. His thighs were powerful and calves shapely and strong.   
  
Barry’s mouth was dry as the desert he had wondered about and he felt curiously light-headed. But then he noticed something else.   
  
Scars. Terrible serpentine white gashes wrapping around his shoulders and back, raised lines and mottled skin creating a gruesome latticework all over his body. He suddenly remembered the seven years the King, then the Crown Prince, had been lost in North Sea, when the Opal Realm had been plunged into chaos at the purported loss of both its ruler and scion. Oliver had emerged alive at the end of those years to prove himself a great tactician and warrior who had reclaimed his throne and spent many campaigns stamping out the bandits and feudal lords who challenged him.  
  
The King of Starling had been a hero of legend to Barry growing up, although the man was barely a decade older than him. He had devoured his tales of liberation and valour and heroism like many young men and boys had, never giving much thought to the cost with which such victories must have been bought. His father’s murder at the hands of The Pretender was one with which Barry related keenly and made him feel a kinship with the King, but as to the rest - the whole point had been that he was a hero, stronger than Barry could ever be, untouchable.   
  
Now though, having experienced for himself how arrogant and flawed the King could be but also how full of kindness and humour - now all Barry saw was a history of brutality pressed into the flesh of a man burdened with too much obligation and regret. The breathlessness turned into a choking feeling in his chest, hands clenching with the need to touch him.   
  
He shifted around as Barry watched, the godly handsome profile clearly visible. Water poured over his open mouth and throat, streaming in rivulets down his collarbones and the sharply defined abdomen, through the thatch of hair between his legs - and - and…  
  
All the blood rushed to his own groin as he beheld the King’s cock, impressive even hanging flaccid. It was surreal now to remember that the man who he had fantasized about mere weeks go as he lay in the dark, stroking himself, trying to imagine what might be revealed under the heavy plate and leather armour, what passion the clenched jaw and slight irritation with which he seeemed to regard Barry might transform into - that that man was now his  _husband_.  
  
The King smoothed praying hands over his face and hair one last time and waded out of the spray. He stepped gracefully as gazelle onto the dry rock of the basin rim, shaking off the droplets of water clinging to his hair and beard, basking in the sun.   
  
“If my prince has finished enjoying the view, I would like my robe now, please.”  
  
Barry jerked electrified, and froze in mortification. The King turned around and looked directly at him, smiling.   
  
“Y-you knew I was there - here? All this time?” Barry stuttered as though he was the one who had emerged from frigidly cold water. “How?”  
  
“I was meditating. It sharpens the senses,” explained King Oliver, reaching out for his clothes. “And you made enough noise to scare a lot of birds and a beaver or two.”   
  
This level of continous embarrassment was getting tiresome, but Barry could only stare at his feet in resignation and try not to slip over the rocks as he picked his way forward.  
  
“Thank you,” the man said mildly as he took a thick blanket from him. He made no move to cover himself, instead using it to dry his hair and then his arms and shoulders, moving ever lower, completely unself-conscious.   
  
It was all quite maddening, and keeping his gaze rooted to the small fish darting around in the clear water beneath his feet was quite difficult when he was standing a (very) bare arm’s length away from his beautifully nude hero.  _Anger is good_  he reminded himself, and distracted himself from the sounds of cloth rustling over skin by imagining several ways he could arrange Lady Felicity’s untimely demise.  
  
“You need not stand there if you’re uncomfortable,” said the King wryly. “I take it that Felicity happened to you?”   
  
“Apparently,” Barry told his feet mutinously. “I did not expect I would find her such an uncharitable and unkind person. I had thought she might be a friend to me.”  
  
The King chuckled. “It is unlikely she meant it as a prank to embarrass you, Barry. The woman is a blamed nuisance and is far too much of a romantic, but a well-meaning one.”  
  
“She meant to make a match of two people already married, then?” Barry retorted, unappeased.   
  
“She knows you don’t look very kindly upon me,” said the King. “I suspect she thought we would be able to connect better in seclusion, away from camp.”   
  
“And what kind of connection did she imagine?” inquired Barry tartly, “That I would be overcome with lust and swoon in your arms?”

"Swooning would be inconvenient," said the King. "But I have been told I'm not without my charms." The grin tugging at his mouth had an edge of boyish mischief that made Barry' stomach swoop.

He bent down to set the rest of the clothes on a dry rock and defiantly raised his still-burning face to find the robe wrapped around the other man’s waist. There was still entirely too much skin to be merciful to his young libido, but at least there was an illusion of modesty now.   
  
A hint of amusement still played on the King's lips but he looked regretful. "I'm sorry. I have discomfited you."

"I am not discomfited," said Barry, with dignity. " _I_ am fully clothed."

"So you are. You have me at a disadvantage."

"You should probably do something about that then," said Barry, pointedly.  The King' eyes widened and fresh wave of embarrassment rolled over him. "I meant -,"

"I know what you meant," said the King gently.

He picked up his shirt and pulled it on, keeping his eyes on Barry's own in a playful challenge that both fascinated and confused him. He responded by staring steadily right back, ignoring the burning in his cheeks.

And then the air shifted. The heat that suffused him became of another nature entirely as Oliver's gaze ran over his body, growing heavy as a carress. Suddenly he very much wished Oliver's hands to follow it, to take his unintended meaning and peel off his own clothes. It becoming harder every moment to remember why this would be a mistake. 

"Is this a game to you?" Barry's mouth was dry. "Do you even really want me?" 

Oliver's drew closer "I don’t believe you understood me last night,” his voice turned husky and low, “I married you as much for selfish reasons as for altruistic ones. I desire you,” a cool finger drew deliberately down Barry’s hot cheek, sending a shiver down his spine, “It is that desire that is the cause of most of your current misfortune,” the regret in his tone did not stay the trajectory of his finger that continued down Barry’s throat, where his pulse fluttered wildly, “I would like nothing better to take however much of yourself you are kind enough to offer me, and sate myself as best I can,” the touch was now trailing down his collarbone and his eyes fell shut, fighting the urge to cry from sheer want, “If you were to come to me of your own free will now, I could never be so strong as to deny you.” 

Barry opened his eyes, ever more light-headed, to find Oliver so close to him that he could fall into his arms within half a step. The King’s eyes were as blue as the pool below them, dark with heat.  
  
“Why?” he whispered, holding himself in place even as Oliver’s mouth drew him close, the particles of air between them magnetized. “Why me? You could have anyone.”  
  
“Why does any man covet only one, when he could desire all?” Oliver’s breath was on his lips now, mint and cloves and warmth. “None of us can know. Of all those in the realm I could ever want, I wished for only you.”  
  
The kiss was a mere shift of air between them, a moment that disappeared into the space between their breaths. A heartbeat where a fantasy dissolved into something warm and real alive moving over Barry’s mouth, consuming him. His lips fell open for Oliver’s tongue, his spine turning liquid as strong hands clasped his arms. He fell forward, drunk and heady on Oliver’s taste, his strength, his scent of forests and rain, crushed against that powerful chest like water curling over sun-warmed rock, time rushing past them in a meaningless torrent.  
  
He did not realize he had been drowning until he was released and his breath broke surface. Barry panted desperately, heartbeat wild in his chest as Oliver braced him apart and upright, his own breathing just as ragged.   
  
“Gods,” Oliver panted, trembling hands running up Barry’s shoulders to cup his neck.   
  
Barry wanted to grasp the wrists on either side of his neck and lean his forehead against Oliver’s, mingling their harsh breathing between them. He wanted to let his still-dizzy head fall upon that strong scarred shoulder and let those arms hold him safe and close.   
  
He pushed the King away.   
  
Hurt seeped from the blue eyes for moment, so human and wounded, the palpable current of yearning pulling at Barry. Then a distant gate fell shut behind them and all emotion receded. Oliver’s arms fell to his sides, the stoic mask of the King back in place.   
  
There was no excuse he could give, no way to explain how frightened and tangled up he felt inside, how near he felt to bursting into sobs like a lost child.   
  
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, swallowing back the rising tears. “I can’t.”  
  
He fled, slipping and sliding ungracefully on the rocks, scraping his palms and feet but never looking back until he was swallowed by the darkness of the thicket. 

…


	3. Chapter 3

 

Felicity was proud of her skill at gathering intelligence and diplomacy in the High Court. But she had to admit when she made a miscalcuation.   
  
She wasn’t entirely sure what outcome she had wanted when she had nudged Prince Barry toward a very naked and wet Oliver two days ago (at least she had hoped the sight would put the young man in a more agreeable mood) but it certainly wasnt to find them even less communicative than ever. Oliver was being more stoic, stern and well, more _Oliver_ than usual. He wasn’t treating his husband like a nervous horse he had no idea what to do with anymore but this new proper courtesy he was affording the poor boy, as though he was a valued ambassador Oliver was entertaining, was scarcely an improvement. The prince seemed constantly uncertain and unable to meet the King’s eyes, raising his own only when the his back was turned to stare after him with an agonized, wrecked look - it was heartbreaking to watch. Not to mention very, very bad for the company to see.   
  
She was somewhat at a loss, because Barry had now turned quite cold and closed off to her and Oliver was expertly dodging her at every turn. Diggle was no help, having given her a stern lecture and an admonishment to not interfere further, and Tommy had just laughed at her. Men were obviously useless at matters of the heart. She wished Laurel were here.   
  
Oh well, desperate times…  
  
“What in the - good gods, woman! Did you _want_ your head off?”  
  
Felicity impatiently looked down at the sword pointed at her neck and flicked it away. “I gave warning!” she defended. 

"Barrelling into my quarters yelling while I’m in my britches does not qualify as warning!” Oliver tossed the sword back on the bed in irritation, dismissed the disconcerted guards and resumed sponging himself over the warm wash basin. “What do you mean by barging in at dawn? I could have been taking a piss!" 

"I’ve already seen it all,” said Felicity dismissively waving over his bare chest as Oliver sputtered. “And you left me no choice. What happened that day at the fall?”   
  
“You mean after you sent him to ogle me?” said Oliver raising an eyebrow.   
  
She blushed. “All right, I confess I didn’t quite think it through. But what could possibly have happened to put the two of you at outs now?”   
  
Oliver heaved a deep sigh and she listened to his tale with mounting dismay.  
  
“Well,” she said helplessly, watching him pull on an undershirt with his customary grim expression, “this is somewhat of a setback. But you can’t give up yet!” 

He pulled on his boots as though they had personally offended him. “And how many times am I to be rebuffed before I’m allowed to deny myself the mortification?”

“Is that why you’re moping?” she stared at him incredulously. “Oliver, all that happened was that a young virgin lad became overwhelmed and spooked. It doesn’t mean that he hates you.”  
  
“I know he doesn’t hate me,” he retorted. “But I don’t know that he wants me either.”  
  
Felicity tamped down her frustration with difficulty. She knew Oliver remembered as well as she did the way Barry had orbited him like a lanky awestruck satellite when they had arrived at the Citadel. Puppy love though it had been, that kind of long-held desire and hero worship was not so easily extinguished, especially given Oliver’s very real magnetism and charm.   
  
She could regrettably and personally attest to that last.   
  
Some battles are to be fought another day, however, so she switched to the more urgent tack.  
  
“This is no time to be romantic!” she told him and ignored his dumbstruck expression, “The way you two are carrying on, everyone in the Realm will soon realize that this union is an unstable one, likely unconsummated. The Dowager Duchess of Keystone is Barry’s aunt, Oliver! Despite the successes of your campaign, your reign is still in its early stages, you cannot afford to alienate any of the Prince’s family or show disharmony to the people! You must somehow come to an accord with him before we reach Keystone.”   
  
Oliver had his back to her as he fastened his tunic but his powerful shoulders slumped at her words and his head fell forward with a deep sigh. She couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy.   
  
“What would you have me do?” he asked wearily. “I can’t talk to him anymore Felicity. He’s no longer predisposed kindly toward you either.”  
  
“That’s understandable,” she said ruefully, “but I think he would also benefit from the ear of a friend.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Someone he can really relate to.”  
  
…  
  
Roy Harper was a simple man. He was excellent in a fight, doing his mentor proud. He could dress a wound and hunt game and had very good taste in ale houses. But his present task stymied him.   
  
He liked the Prince well enough, he supposed. The lean and bookish sort wasn’t really his taste, but he didnt put on airs (which Roy had no patience for) and he didn’t try to order him about as some nobles did, as though being the Oliver’s squire made him everybody else’s houseboy. Beyond that, he hadn’t really considered him before.   
  
Simple wasn’t the same as stupid though. He could tell that the fellow wouldn’t be here if he had had his way, and Roy would have had to be a great deal simpler to miss the lack of cordiality between him and Oliver. There was already hushed whispers and knowing looks about it among the soldiers.  
  
He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do about it or why he had been picked to “make friends” with the lad. Social graces had never been one of his virtues.   
  
It seemed that the dilemma was solved for him however.   
  
“Did Felicity put you up to this too?” said the Prince, looking distinctly unimpressed when Roy had awkwardly approached him. He sat surrounded by scrolls and maps, bracketed by the gnarly roots of a great yew they were resting under after their midday meal.  
  
Eh. Fuck it.  
  
“Yes,” he answered honestly.   
  
“Well you can tell Lady Smoak that I no longer desire any favours from her -”  
  
“Do I look like a messenger pigeon? You tell her yourself,” he shot back in irritation. “Your Highness,” he added on as an afterthought.   
  
Prince Barry seemed taken aback.   
  
"I meant no offence,” he said. “I must say the King keeps very…informal company. I had not expected it. Everyone back home is much more…deferential.”  
  
“Oh they’re all bowing and kowtowing here as well,” said Roy. He jumped up easily onto a low hanging branch above him and got comfortable on his perch, bracing a leg against the trunk, rather enjoying the Prince’s bemusement. “It’s just us Queensmen that can do as we like, most of the time. Even René only caught it that time cos he was idiot enough to try and fuck around with you. Oliver wouldn’t care otherwise, even though Ramirez’s only been one of us since he got the throne.”   
  
“Why, how long have you - stars!” the Prince suddenly craned his neck up to him with wide eyes, scrolls falling heedless from his lap, “do you mean to say you were one of the Bowmen who helped him when he was hiding in the Glades as the Emerald Archer?”   
  
“Aye,” said Roy, airily. He began carving a groove on the trunk with his pocketknife in a play of nonchalance. “My tribe was the one that found him after he washed up fighting off the last of the Hashishi. A sight he was, killed every last one that came ashore after ‘im but stuck like a porcupine. The scum shot at him from the ship to leave him for dead, see? More fool them, my people burned and sank the rotten sandworms before they could carry any tales of his whereabouts to the Demon’s Head. Not that we knew it was the Demon at the time.”   
  
The Prince seemed shaken, but then surveyed him narrowly. “You don’t look like a Gladian.”   
  
Roy flushed and glared down at him. “Yeh, well what would you know what a Gladian looked like? You’re pale as a limestone from the Citadel.”   
  
“I’m sorry,” said the Prince, abashed. “You’re right. I’ve only been among other Lowlanders from the Plains and rarely allowed to venture from the Citadel save in the company of courtiers.”  
  
“Opallines.”  
  
“Beg pardon?”  
  
“Opalline Lowlanders,” Roy corrected, determined to fix the holes in this Settler prince’s education. “There’s Traveller, and Onyx tribes in the Lowlands, just as there are Sylvan and Telluri tribes in the Glades.”  
  
“Ah,” the Prince considered this with a slight furrow in his brow. “Do the Gladian tribes look so like Opalline Settlers then? My scrolls all depicted them markedly different.”  
  
Roy snorted and kicked his feet up. “Nah, they mostly are. My Da was an Opalline Guardsman in the city. Never came for me or my Ma though. She died when I was a lad and I was raised her brother, a Sylvan cheiftan. I used to smuggle medicines and necessities to the tribe from the Starling markets. No one gives much notice to a street rat ’s long as he blends in, you get my meaning?”   
  
The Prince nodded hesitantly. “So your people took the King in and nursed him?”  
  
“Aye. Me and Mother Baal. 'Course he wasn’t king then. Didn’t hesitate to bow to my uncle and give respect. We all called him just Oliver. Only me, Mother Baal and the Chief knew who he was and what he what he was up to.”  
  
Roy found himself telling the other boy about Oliver’s slow convalescence, recounting with glee his awkwardness and ignorance of the tribal ways and the many jokes and pranks that were played upon him as a result. How his people remained wary of him even when they saw he meant no harm (“ _Settlers need mean nothing to cause harm, little bear, remember that_ ”) and how hard Oliver had to try to persuade the tribes to support him in taking the throne back.   
  
“But why?” asked Prince Barry. “Wouldn’t it have been in the best interests of the Gladians to have the trueborn king back in power?”  
  
“Trueborn king! Listen to you!”, Roy sneered down at the ignorant Opalline scornfully. “The tribes dont care if Settler kings are true sons or cowsons. Not a one of them have been good for us. Sure, some of them werent as bad as the others. But as far as we’re concerned, your Opallines are all theives and cheats,” he leaned down into the pale Lowlander’s face, the fury of a lifetime never far from the surface sparking in his veins. “We used to farm in the forest glades till the Settlers drove us into the swamps, and now they call it the Glades to rub salt in the wound! Do you know even your Good King Robert never received the Gladians in his Court, nevermind give us back our land? Starling whoresons turn us out in the dead of winter, steal our game and goods for racketeering whether we starve or freeze and then hunt us like dogs! Its the same all over! We none of us trust a one of you!”   
  
The Opalline boy didn’t shrink from the finger Roy jabbed in his face, nor did he grow abashed. He simply regarded Roy with the same even, avid interest as though absorbing all this information dilligently. Roy suddenly recollected himself and pulled back, ears burning. Oliver would not be best pleased with this display and there were still those among the company who would like an excuse to see a Gladian put in his place, King’s squire or not.  
  
“But you trust Oliver,” the Prince pointed out, unruffled.   
  
“Aye, well,” Roy re-settled himself on the branch, still trying to calm himself. “Oliver is just Oliver, to me at least. I was a little lad when I met him, and he taught me to whittle and play swords. I’ve been taking care of him for seven years and he of me. He’s a better king than any other Settler, sure. Returned us some land he confiscated to farm, a counsel in court and special dispensations to practice our own laws. None of us have starved anymore in the last five winters, just as he promised.”  
  
“Do you think he would ever go back on his word?” asked other boy curiously.   
  
“Nah, I don’t,” said Roy, sighing. This was a sore subject with him but the prince couldnt be called to know that. “As I say, I know Oliver. But I cant fault the Glades for taking the years as they come. Oliver is only one king, but the Realm has seen many others before him. Our fortunes wax and wane with them. Mostly wane. The Pretender made a show of benevolence toward us, but the city guards were more brutal than ever during his reign, throwing us bodily out of the city and imprisoning many of us under false pretexts. Things are better under Oliver, but even now, many in the High Court are discontented with his new edicts. They don’t like most of the Queensmen, because a lot of us aren’t noble, like Lady Fliss and Dame Drake and even General Diggle. They dont like us rabble let into politics and they dont like the pressure he puts on the other Kingdoms to follow suit.”  
  
He cut off a stick and began to whittle his moroseness into the wood. Roy hated politics. He knew how to fight and how to hunt and even how to heal but the viper tongues and double-edged meanings of the court were as a maze of tripwires for him, something he couldnt punch or yell into submission. He hated that aspect of being Oliver’s squire, the castle always seeming ready to choke him with its tensions. The only good thing about being in it was Thea. And she was only a fool’s hope.   
  
“I heard of his new edicts and reforms,” said the Prince thoughtfully, “they did not sit altogether well with some nobles, it is true. My guardian was neutral but the Viscount of Westfold and his family were quite open to them. They are of Onyx ancestry, you know,” he said earnestly.  
  
Roy debated explaining to him that most of the Tribes still considered their intermarried get of the Settlers outsiders at best and traitors at worst, that Onyx or not, being a nobleman in an Opalline court made them as Opalline as anyone in the eyes of the Tribes. But that, he decided in resignation, was a disillusionment for another day.  
  
“The Tribes have been generally treated better than most in the Plains for the past generation or so,” he allowed grudgingly. 

“'Twas under my grandparents, the House of Allendale,” said Prince Barry proudly. “And my parents Lord Henry and Lady Eleanora, who led the Resistance in the Plains against the Pretender. Until…” he trailed off suddenly and looked away. 

Roy remembered the story. An awkward silence fell between them.  
  
“Well, you’re Prince Consort now!” he finally said with forced cheer. “You’ll be able to continue your family’s works with even more ease.”   
  
“You make a terrible salesman, my friend,” said the Prince, a smile quirking his lips as he stared unseeing at the scattered scrolls in his lap. “It’s not so simple.”   
  
“Not many things in life are,” retorted Roy, “but you could do a sight worse than Oliver.”   
  
Prince Barry stared into the distance thoughtfully. “You love him, don’t you?”   
  
Roy scratched the back of his neck that felt rather hot all of a sudden. Emotional displays, outside of anger, made him uncomfortable. “Oliver? Reckon so,” he said gruffly. “Told you, he’s like my big brother. He’s a great blockhead, but a good one. All I’ve left in the way of family, since the Chief died and I came away. I’m still one of them but…’s not the same anymore.”  _Raised by them, loved by them but never one of them, not without the tether of my uncle_ he thought bitterly.  _Neither Settler nor tribe yet too much of both_.

“I’ve never had a sibling,” said the Prince pensively. “Eddie was close but my guardian kept him away at Keystone for much of the time. Lady Iris’s brother Wally was also almost a one, but he was more her brother in the end,” that mysterious sadness fell across his face like an evening shadow, although the sun still burned high in the cobalt sky. “I dreamed of marrying and making a big family though. Filling the house with children as my parents had intended." 

Roy shifted, silently cursing Felicity for choosing him for this ill-suited task. He didnt want to be ruminating on Oliver and his husband’s conjugal plans.   
  
He sighed. "I’m sure you can still adopt a brood, or Oliver will let you beget your own. I told you, he’s not like one of them old fogeys at court, all caught up in protocol.”   
  
“You don’t understand,” said Prince Barry, eyes growing ever sadder. “I dreamed of having them with…someone. Someone I’d loved forever.”   
  
A sudden stab of sympathy pierced Roy. He chanced a sidelong glance at him.  
  
“Who were they?” he couldnt help asking.  
  
The Prince sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Doesn’t matter now. But this…situation I find myself in is ironic.” He slung his cloak back and hugged his knees despondently to his chest. “Since I first heard tell of the Emerald Archer as a boy, I’ve woven wild fantasies of meeting him, impressing him and yes, even being wooed by him,” his cheeks turned red (really, this lad turned all colours far too easily, even for an Opalline. He’d not stand a chance at court intrigue if he didn’t learn to mind all that blushing), “But they were only fantasies. He was a hero, a myth, almost godly. My real hopes were pinned on the woman I loved, and there were moments when it seemed…when it seemed that she reciprocated. I could scarcely wait for my…well, to finally ask her. It all seemed close enough to touch sometimes.” He stared disbelievingly at his hands as though not quite sure if they were real. “And now, this my reality and my dream is as distant and impossible as I once thought the King would be. Even he, it turns out, has more than feet of clay. It feels like I’m the butt of some god’s merry joke,” he glared into the horizon with this bitter conclusion.  
  
Roy shrugged, impatience returning. “Pining after a lost love is hardly a condition unique to you, Prince. The gods know that Oliver has done enough of it. So have I,” he swallowed, pretending not to see the Prince flick curious eyes in his direction, and hastily changed course, “And I’ve been cleaning his boots after days of riding. I wish his feet were only of clay, believe you me,” he scoffed.  
  
“Let me speak plainly, Prince. I don’t really care what all you and Oliver get up to in your tents - that’s not my business. What is my business is that there’s already scuttlebutt among the soldiers that there’s problems between you. I’ve been tellin’ 'em off and Digg’s doing his best, but ye cant stop tongues from waggin’, especially when the two of you lope around with faces longer than the Odd Man River.”  
  
The Prince’s eyes flared, head held regally high. “They can damned well stay them if they wish to stay with the King’s company!”  
  
“Why, what do you suggest to do? Have them all flogged? Soldiers gossip worse'n washerwomen, its always been the way,” said Roy impatiently waving the prince’s ire aside. “Once you get to Keystone, the news will spread further. I’m not Lady Fliss, Your Grace,” the sarcasm came easily after the past quarter hour’s discomfort, “I don’t care for romantic interferin’. But your business better not undermine Oliver’s rule and the wellfare of my people.”   
  
Roy liked this lad, thought he might not be so bad for Settler Lord, and even felt for him. But he didn’t stop the harshness in his tone as he faced him down, serious and sharp.   
  
To his credit, the Prince didn’t falter either. He caught Roy’s hard stare with a proud, even one and his jaw set resolutely, “I understand.”  
  
“All right then,” Roy jumped down and dusted himself off, shaking out his shoulders with relief. He held out a hand to help up the prince, who seemed again taken aback by this abrupt end to the conversation. “One more thing, though,” Roy said aimably, patting him on the arm as he righted himself, “You do my brother wrong and I set a curse on ye. A Gladian one. Don’t say I never warned ye.”  
  
Prince Barry’s lips twitched. “I wasn’t aware the Gladian tribes were practitioners of magic,” he said solemnly, “but I will take it under advisement.”   
  
…  
  
That night, Barry gathered his resolve and approached his husband when he got up from the campfire after supper.   
   
“I was hoping Your Majesty would take a walk with me.”  
  
The Queensmen clustering around King Oliver suddenly quietened. Only the barest flicker betrayed the King’s surprise before he inclined his head with impersonal graciousness. “Certainly, Your Highness. No, Digg," he held up his hand as his Guard made to follow him, "let them circle the perimeter only. I’ve my sword and would be a piss poor warrior if I couldnt defend myself a few yards away from camp,” he said with the faint irritation of one who had chafed against this before. 

Barry led him away through the trees, following the footpaths of well-trodden needleleaves illumed only by light kiss of the crescent moon hanging high above them, peering through the net of tall evergreens. The firelight and sounds of the camp faded into the distance as they walked, the darkness wrapping itself around them in a blanket. Every sensation was suddenly sharpened in the dimness, cold raising goosebumps on his skin, the whisper of wind rustling the trees and singing of crickets interspersed with the low woodwind hoots of owls, all amplified, the crunch of leaves and twigs under Barry’s feet loud in his ears -  
“How are you doing that?” he asked, turning around in surprise.   
  
“Doing what?” the King’s voice was much closer than he had thought it would be in the dark.  
  
Barry had realized that he only heard his own clumsy footsteps, shuffling for footholds; the King’s movements had been nearly silent. He thought again of his days as the Emerald Archer in the verdant flooded forests of the Glades, waging guerilla warfare with his Bowmen and the Gladians.   
  
“Never mind,” he began. “Sire, I wished to apologize. I was -”   
  
What exactly did you call running away from your own husband’s seduction? Rude? Barry fought down a wild urge to laugh.   
  
“ - unprepared,” he lighted on. “I did not wish to cause offence.”   
  
“I wasn’t offended.” Barry couldnt see the King’s face very well even after his eyes had adjusted to the faint velvet luminosity, but he must have made a disbelieving noise for he added, “I’m being truthful, Barry, it wasn’t you I was embarrassed by. It was me. I had promised you space, and time and agency and then the very next day attempted to seduce you. It was appalling behaviour and I didn’t know how to put you at your ease again.”   
  
Every interaction with the King felt like trying to find your way up a footpath in the darkness, thought Barry in resignation. You expect stone only to like as not stumble over grass.  
  
Now that he thought on it though, he wasn’t exactly wrong. Hurt and anger rose in his chest.   
  
“I thought you were punishing me,” he said, trying to keep the reproach from his voice.   
  
The King heaved a sigh and scrubbed his hands over his face. “I am an idiot,” said almost to himself. “I was hurt,” he confessed, the line of his shoulders slumping, “But I had no right to feel it. I thought maybe distance would be what you wanted.”  
  
“You keep assuming that,” accused Barry, the bile now rising up his throat. “Every time I react the way you don’t expect me to, you pull away, saying its for my sake but it never is,” the tears were threatening to choke him, much to his mortification. He was a wronged man, not a petulant child.   
  
The King took a step towards him, hand reaching and Barry flinched back, not knowing if it was to comfort or censure. The man immediately stopped, arms dropping awkwardly to his sides. There was silence save for the percussion of the crickets. Barry turned away and huddled into the darkness gratefully, discreetly wiping his eyes, but the small sniffle was clearly heard in the stillness. Damn it all.   
  
“I’m sorry, Barry,” the King’s voice was soft behind him. “You must be tired of hearing it by now, but I am. I’m - I’m by nature a selfish person. The years of mistakes and strife should have cured me of it by now, but it hasn’t." He stepped towards him with a placating gesture. “You’re right. This is about you. Tell me what you need.”   
  
“I - I need,”  _your affection, your regard, to know I’m not just a plaything, time to mourn the life I could have had with Iris, time to be angry at you_  “you to understand. I’m still in love with the person I’ve left behind,” he couldn’t say her name, certain even that would be caught up by someone, taken from him and passed around for low merriment. “Being with you feels unfaithful to her, although neither of us made any promises to each other. I know all that is immaterial to the good of the realm, to my duty as a royal and your consort. But I need time and your patience and your forgiveness.”  
  
“Barry, there need never be forgiveness for loving someone,” said the King, stricken. “I would never fault you for that. We are royals but not puppets, to be able to ignore our feelings at will.”  
  
A hand brushed his arm (how did he feel so warm when he didn’t even wear his cloak?) and Barry turned to find him standing very close. It was too dark to see his face but his hands loosely cupped his elbows and carressed him soothingly. “I told you I understood heartbreak intimately. I will never forgive myself for being the instrument of yours.”  
  
“Do you still yearn for her?” Barry asked, feeling bold. “Lady Felicity?”  
  
The King paused. “No,” he said in measured tones. “I used to be wistful for what might have been. But I learned to let go for both our sakes. She will always be special to me, and a part of me will always love her, but it is not a source of pain anymore. It’s more important to me that she’s happy.”   
  
Suddenly his mind’s eye, he saw Iris as child, running with him across the golden fields, dark braids streaming behind her; Iris dancing with him at her presentation in court, beautiful in the light of a thousand candles, eyes alight; Iris’s scent tickling his nose and her warmth against his arm as she leaned against him, dreamily listening to the tales of far away lands they would see together.

A flood of misery engulfed him, too close to the King to hide it. His fingers scrabbled for purchase against his arms and the pressure in his chest escaped in a long low keen.

“Barry,” the King whispered, soft and aching, “oh my Prince." 

The violent flood of his grief unbalanced him forwards onto the King’s shoulder. Strong arms held him close as he cried, his groom tucking his face into his own neck, heedless of the tears dampening his skin. The misery was like an animal trying to tear him apart, not only for wanting Iris, but for the stress of the last few weeks, of the year since he realized the extent of his king’s betrayal; the years before that trapped inside a citadel with a kingdom that pitied him and a guardian whose affection was thrown like crumbs at his starving feet - it all unravelled in this moment, leaving him as a marionette with its strings slashed, held up only by the King’s solid frame.

He shook apart for what felt like a small eternity, but Oliver’s arms never loosened, the hands never stopped rubbing his back and carding through his hair to cradle his head. When the storm eventually spent itself, Barry was too hollowed out and tired to lift his head from the sodden fabric of Oliver’s tunic, his shoulder broad and comfortable beneath his cheek.   
  
"I’m sorry,” he slurred, to exhausted for any more embarrassment.   
  
“Don’t be,” said Oliver, pressing a kiss to the back of his head. “I understand.”   
  
After a while, Barry finally drew back, realizing they needed to find the warmth of their own beds. The King’s chest was warm and inviting under his hands and he wished he was made shorter rather than of equal height (which was strange, he had always thought of the man as looming over him) so he could tuck his face under his chin, safe in the scent of woodsmoke and sandalwood and the rough stubble against his skin.   
  
“Thank you,” he said shyly. “I think I needed that.”  
  
“I think so too,” Oliver’s voice was a kind whisper as low as the wind. 

Barry beat back his tiredness with difficulty and composed himself. “I know how important it is that we act our parts,” he said, squaring his shoulders resolutely. “Especially at Keystone. Although I assure you, my aunt can be taken into any confidence we wish.”

“Barry, you don’t have to -”  
  
“You know we do,” he said firmly. “You’re right. We are royals and the fortunes of kingdoms rest upon us. Henceforth, no matter what happens, we must show no distance, no disunity.”   
  
“It shall be so,” said the King, and there was clear pride in his voice. “Will you be my ally then, Prince Bartholomew?”  
  
Barry wrinkled his nose. “If you never call me that again, I will even be your friend.”  
  
A startled owl took flight with an indignant hoot as the stillness of the forest was broken by the King’s laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this story, I'd love to hear from you! You can also visit me at [pinkletterday](https://pinkletterday.tumblr.com) on tumblr. <3


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